The Baseball Goddess
by GreenPen42
Summary: Of course, because all my life I'd been training and working my ass off just to get on the team where females are shunned, right?
1. Juxtaposition

_Oh, my lovelies. You guys are gonna hate me. So I was sorto getting tired with my old story, Adoration Kills, so I started working on this one. WAIT, DON'T HATE ME. I'm still continuing Adoration Kills but this is another story to keep my interest at bay. Hope you guys like! And if you don't understand the flow of the story yet, don't worry. This is just a preface. The next chapter will explain everything. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter One: Juxtaposition_

I started counting in my head.

Ten pairs of eyes on me. Nine fingers tapping. Eight needlessly shirtless. Seven sitting down. Six different smells. Five more seconds to go. Four chewing seeds. Three brought bats. Two beads of sweat on my brows. One, I could already tell, didn't like me.

And none out of every single one in this goddamn small room were smiling. Just great.

I shifted my weight between my right and left leg, trying to get my mind off at how conscious I was of all their stares—or rather, _glares. _But the heat and the fact that I had no personal pace added ten pounds to it. "Nice to meet you," I said, cursing my feeble voice to the next century. It wasn't like I was a shy girl. I was an in-betweener—one of those people who wouldn't go out of their way to greet a stranger, but would do so if that stranger said hello first. My face, on the other hand, told a different story. Most people would say that I had that sad-puppy look written all over the way I look at the world, like I was some fresh meat waiting to be taken. My mother used to tell me that I, especially, needed to watch out, because I was just the kind of girl who others took advantage of. Which was why when I had heard myself, so quiet and weak and _vulnerable, _I was sure I'd be ripped to pieces in seconds by these onlookers who were probably hiding a nice set of fangs behind their scowls.

"Nice to meet you, too," replied an unknown voice. At first, it made me think that maybe not everybody here hated me from first impression, but as the greeting was followed by a wad of gum cleaving through the air and landing a wet one on my forearm, I took it all back.

I fought my need to grimace. It'd be showing whoever the immature brat was that he won; that I was as easily hurt as I was disturbed. My fingers pricked the at the gum, stretching it and prying it off my skin. Once I got a hold of it, I snapped my wrist like how I always did when I was on the field, and I stared in triumph—half disgust—as the purple lump flew and adhered on the concrete floor underneath me.

"Pick that up later," Coach Bob whispered beside me. He was nice. He knew that if he had instructed me to clean it up now, where I'd be practically on the floor in front of the guys I was trying to make ammends with, they wouldn't learn to give me some respect.

I cheated a quick glance at him. He had a knuckle-length scar that ran from the tip of his brow to the corners of his crow's feet. It looked like it blended in just fine, since his old age was starting to result to deep wrinkles here and there. I read somewhere that wrinkles aftermaths of years of laughter. I wouldn't know if that was true. I'd only met him and the other coach a few minutes ago, right before they forcibly hauled me over here. But when Bob smiled when he had greeted me, his wrinkles grew even farther in as if they were used to it. On the very right side of his mouth was a misplaced tooth. It stuck out like a sore thumb and dug into his lip. It made me wonder if he ever opted for braces when he was younger.

"Hey! Who threw that?" yelled Coach Watson. My ears drummed. I was aware of the fact that he could shout—everybody from my class three stories up could hear him screaming at his players everyday in seventh period practices—but standing so close to him had me under a new light. My feet slid to the left, closer to Coach Bob.

He was a tall, lanky man, opposite of Bob. Watson and his Hitler-famous mustache circulated around the school for quite a while last year due to the Rag-Doll Incident. That was how I always remembered him. During one of the home games, the Ump "seemed" to have made a wrong call and Watson got so p'd off about it, he snatched his three-year old daughter's doll and knuckle-balled it right into the Ump's face. It would've been fine if the Ump had his mask on, but he didn't. Someone told me it wasn't only that, but also because Watson used to be a hell of a pitcher back in the day and that his arm hadn't rusted over the year.

"I asked who threw that!"

"I did." A blonde boy raised his hand, revealing his horrible farmer's ran as his sleeve rolled down to his shoulder. His feet were propped up on the table and his chair was leaned back, almost all the way. The smirk on his face was so big and cocky it took up half of his dirt-covered face. "Sorry, Coach. I meant to hit her face."

"Dammit, Yume!" I swore I heard the ceiling shook. "Apologize and get on the track! I want ten laps and if you give me anything less, your ass in gonna be on that bench for so long it's gonna have an imprint." Watson ran a tired hand down his face. It must've been the first time I've heard a player talk back to their coach. Either this team was stupid or unbelievably good that even the coaches would take anything just to have every player available. "Honestly," Watson continued, "I'm trying to make it work here! Suck it up and stop bitchin', you damn pricks! We lost Jules, okay? Unless you wanna stay here while West Ranch takes playoffs—_again—_we need another Jules. Better, faster, more accurate. And she's—" he slapped a hard hand across my back; I had to reach out and grab the edge of the table to not fall over from the sudden impact "—the closest thing we've got."

Except for the throb that buzzed inside my ears, it got quiet. Watson seemed like he was convincing himself that that was a good speech, with his nose high in the air and brows furrowed, but I knew so otherwise. They couldn't care less. Bob's muted sigh that came a little afterwards reassured me that I wasn't the only one who saw through the boys' silence.

Wallowing in the heavy atmosphere that weighed down on my shoulders plus the heat that was starting to get me was not an okay situation. Before I'd been dragged here, I was planning to come home to a nice, cold bowl of birthday cake ice cream and a nice, cold shower that was accompanied by a nice, cold nap. That sounded so good compared to where I was. My finger sprung up to my forehead to catch a hasty sweat. _Great. _I was sweating already. Although I was used to it, this was the first time I'd sweated by just standing inside, where it was shaded. The damn club room might've been a human toaster, but it was nonetheless shaded.

The reserved reticence was disturbed by dull, steely sound. Yume—was that his name?—dropped his feet from the table surface, creating another harsh sound as his metal cleats met with concrete. He stood as his chair slid back against the wall. He locked his eyes with mine. "Sorry," he spat, inspecting me up and down as if I couldn't see it. He snatched a cap from a boy's head beside him, threw it on and fixed its bill, still keeping his attention focused.

I rolled my eyes. "Apology not believed."

"Apology not sincere."

He turned around on his heels and reached for the door. As soon as he opened it, the heat waves came flooding in, raising the room temperature another hundred degrees, and both coaches signaled Yume to get out so he could close the door faster. On his way out, he snuck his hand over his shoulder and flipped me the little birdy.

_Ooh, I'm so scared. _

"I want you done in fifteen minutes, Yume!"

"Got it, coach."

For some reason, it seemed like the tenseness doubled after Yume left, like his team was trying to fill in the missing hole but overdid it a little bit too much. I shifted between my legs again. It was a bad habit I couldn't break, and right now I didn't feel like changing it.

"So what now?" asked a boy whom I recognized. Tobita Yuu. One of my friends had had the biggest crush on him for so long that it's probably leaning to love at this moment. I didn't know why. Sure, he was nice, but there was a fine line between being a gentleman and sissy. Though he did play his position well—I'd give him that.

"With the distraction gone, we welcome her into the team," said Bob. A few of them grunted. Most sent me a menacing frown. "Hey now. Since when did we learn how to complain, boys?"

Arms crossed. Looks exchanged. Few spitted at the ground then turned to catch my attention. _That was your face, _they would seem to say to me.

"She'll start practicing with us starting next week. I expect you to give your utmost respect to her when she begins." Bob glanced at me. "You won't be disappointed. She might not be at her best at the beginning, she's just going to get used to how things work around here, but she's good. I bet she'll impress even_you, _Natsume."

I rivered Bob's stare to the very back corner of the room, towards a raven-hued head who's identity I knew straight away. Unlike Tobita, _way _too many of my friends had crushes on Hyuuga, as they were part of the 99% of the woman population in the city that couldn't help but be drawn in by his good looks and athletic ability. I didn't know where I stood in that portion. I did think that he was more attractive than the average male, but what else was there about him? His talent as a centerfielder?

He scoffed at Bob's comment and turned away, fixing his bill until it covered the tops of his eyes. I caught Watson's chastising shake of his head, but otherwise Bob smiled like he imagined that sort of reaction from the boy.

"Anything questions?" No one stirred. "Alright. I still expect your best effort at practices. I won't go easy just because a female being has joined in on our 20-sets sprints," Watson bellowed.

20 sets.

Just that?

"We're fielding tomorrow. Bring your cleats, gloves, and other crap. Catchers, bring your gear. You'll be catching for the ol' machine." Somewhere in the back of my ear, I heard someone mutter, "It's better than catching for _her_." But that didn't faze me. I turned it around and took it as a compliment.

Bob clapped his sun-tanned hands. "You boys did an excellent job today. Good hustle. Clean up the field—yes, Kitsu, that includes dragging—and do a break. I wanna be able to hear from inside, you hear? No half-assing it! Alright, dismissed."

During the whole ten minutes that I'd been with them, I had never seen them move so fast and hastily. Like they were dying to get out of my presence. They all pushed their chair back and slammed the door open, reveling in the scorching light of the sun that was at its peak.

_"_Augh! Who turned the lights on?"

"Faster, Yume! My baby brother could lap you in a second!" In the distance that would be the school track, Yume hollered back, "Shut up! I'm just warming up!"

"I can't believe she's fucking joining."

"Great coaches we have."

"Don't let them hear you, man. Keep it down."

One of the boys on his way out, a blonde one, clashed stares with mine. Instead of the usual scowl I'd been receiving, the corner of his lips turned upwards into such a fashion that I didn't recognize at first, but after a while, I realized it was a smile. An actual smile. From someone on the team.

I smiled back.

"Lovely, aren't they?" Bob said to me as soon as the last pair of cleats was out the door.

"I can already feel the love."

"Well, to tell the truth, that went better than we expected," confessed Watson. "We brought a bat just in case things got violent." He pointed behind a trash can, where a metal Easton was cleverly hidden.

"They get violent?" I asked.

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

I laughed. I'd been in brawls before. Yeah, sure. But the circumstances were usually a little bit easier, where I would be pretend-wrestiling a toddler and purposely losing to boost up their self-confidence. "I've never fought with boys."

"And we don't intend to let one of our own break that," Bob reassured, flashing his misplaced tooth. "You're safe, don't worry."

"And since we know that we're intruding in your girl time of going home and playing with your dolls and Barbies, we're gonna let you go, too."

"Coach Watson, Barbies _are _dolls."

"Would you rather have me already know that?"

This time it was Bob's turn to sprout a grin and let out a deep sound from within his throat. "Alright, okay, you're free to go. Thanks for coming today."

I shook his hand as he sprung it forward—his wrinkles were already making their way to his fingertips. Afterwards was Watson's. "Not like a had a choice," I replied jokingly. "So when I do come by to get my stuff?"

"Friday."

"Okay. Thanks." I circled around the table to the door. I felt their attentive stares burning holes in my back. I was used to it, since they were always there every Saturday morning I practiced alone out in the field at a park close to my home, but the difference between then and now was that I was aware who was watching me. They didn't reveal themselves until today.

Before my hand twisted the knob that was searing with heat, Bob called out to me. I peeked over my shoulders to the two of them, keeping their eye on me as I suspected. They both looked like they had just had an epiphany.

I quirked an eyebrow. "Yeah?" I answered.

"Welcome to the boy's varsity baseball, Ms. Starting Pitcher, Mikan."

* * *

_So, as I said, this is just a preface to give you a little taste of what The Bassball Goddess will sound like. the next chapter reveals Mikan's background, how she got on the team, and all that stuff. I really hope you guys liked it! I introduced some of the major characters, but not all. I'm making up this story as I go along, by the way. No plot tree or anything like that. Questions? PM me! Please don't forget to review guys. I'll update this in a short while, be patient._

_Again, thanks for reading, lovelies. _


	2. Bench Warmer

_So it took me a little bit longer to finish this bad boy up. Oh well, lol, at least its here. I apologize for the delay. Hope you enjoy!_

_Oh, but first, there's some baseball terms in here some of you may not be familiar with. Here's what they mean:_

_**Fastball:** A type of pitch_

_**"Hit** **her right here, right here":**_ _Means to pitch a strike right to the catcher's glove. _

_**Home:** Home—for more of an explanation, the base where someone stands to bat.  
_

_**Chewing seeds: **Exactly what it says. You chew seeds. (My favorite is ranch-flavored.)_

_**Line-drive:** When a ball is hit in a relatively straight line.  
_

_**Varsity: **Highest level of a highschool sport._

_**Back-up:** A person who goes behind someone who is catching someone else's throw, just in case they don't catch it._

_**When a batter hits a pitch to the right: **It means they are late in swinging the bat. Left—they're early._

_**Flyballs: **Balls that go waaaay up into the air._

_**Dive: **Get on the ground and literally dive for the ball._

_**On the mound: **When the pitcher stands. _

_**Soft-toss: **You toss the ball to the batter from beside them to test their timing._

_**Hit homers: **Home-runs._

_**Dugout:** Where players are on stand-by._

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_Chapter Two: Bench Warmer_

When Juro asked me to play catch with him, I was quick to say no.

"No," I said to him. "Get out Juro! I said no!"

He was barging his way into my room, and despite the fact that I knew it wasn't helping, I pushed on his stomach like I was really believing I'd overpower him. Which, for about four seconds, I thought I actually was. But with each tiny step he took sent me a good three feet back or so. Our age difference back then was something I wished never existed.

"Come _on_!" he drawled, slugging his shoulders in defeat. His voice rang above me. I hated how much taller he was, hated how he used that to his advantage whenever he needed something from me. "Tono bailed last minute and I really need to catch up on my outside practices! You just need to catch my throws. That's all." He walked forward so effortlessly, while I on the other, tried to the best of my abilities to prevent him from coming in any more further, despite that we were already well passed my door.

I screamed, close to throwing a short tantrum. "Do you want to kill me? I know we have our differences, but do you seriously hate your sister that much? " His request had me accepting the revelation that he had taken way too many balls to the head. He should've known best how I'd been to enough of his games to know how well he threw. His accuracy, strength, speed—everything was perfect about it, and that was why being on the other end of his throws was a situation I swore I'd never put myself in.

I needed to see the world, wanted to do everything imaginable and taste everything unimaginable. Death by a ninety-seven mph fastball was not first on my bucket list, nor did I think it was _ever _there.

He gaped at me. "_What_—it's just a ball, not a bullet, Mikan!"

"What about Andou? He lives near here. I know he does! Don't tell me otherwise."

"He's out with Misaki," he spat venomously.

I racked my brain. I didn't know very many of his friends, or at least, his friends who risked their lives every minute holding a glove up and telling Juro, '_hit her right here, right here.' _"Oh! What about, uh…damn what's his face—Shuichi!" I exclaimed as it clicked. "He's your usual catcher, isn't he? I'm sure he wouldn't mind—"

Juro unhappily groaned, rolling his head around his neck. He stopped pushing, but only after I realized we were well into the four-walled space I would've liked to consider my own, but everybody knew there was no such thing as _mine _in the Sakura household. Juro enforced that everyday. "It's his sister's birthday, I heard, or something like that. He just can't come, Mikan, okay! No one can! I wouldn't go to you if I had someone else."

"Then what about Dad?"

As if on cue, an almost-bald head popped in from my door frame with eyebrows raised and lips curved in a mischievous manner. "Sorry," Dad said, deflating my hopes immediately, "but I have a dental appointment in ten."

"Dad!" I complained.

"It'll be good, baby, just go. You've been cooped up in this house all winter break and your brother is offering to take you out for some fresh air. Go ahead Juro, I give you my permission to drag her by force."

The events after that were such a blur I doubt I was remembering them right.

Dad left. I denied. Juro threw me over his shoulder. I denied some more. He chucked me inside his car. I threatened to break his windows. I was too weak to break his windows. He drove to the park five miles over the limit. He got his stuff out of the trunk. I eventually got out and followed him to the field. I was cold. He gave me a glove. He told me to catch it. I asked him catch what. He said catch his throw.

Now, what occurred post his delirious request was one thing and one thing only—I had died. For some insane reason, I ended up going to second base and catching his throw all the way from home. The impact yanked my arm back so hard it dislocated my shoulder and due to the unbearable pain my eleven year-old body had suffered, I crossed over to the other side in a matter of seconds.

But, then again, I was a liar. I always had been. It was probably my uncle who taught me how to over exaggerate a lot of things, made them seem as if it actually happened by dancing between the line of dreams and reality back and , on that note, the next thing I knew I was gripping my gloved hand around a circular object whose presence I was unfamiliar of yet. I didn't know what it was, or what I had just done. Juro ran up to me and once more thrown me over him. Only this time, he was laughing. _You caught it, you caught it!_ he told me. _No one besides Shuichi can catch them!_

"Catch what?" I asked for the second time.

"My throw!"

The feeling of the small ball colliding with the glove rang a tremor inside where my hand was, and it was still there even now. It reminded me of how bad it hurt; how bad it left my hand for days. I laid there, limp over my brother's shoulders unable to grasp what he was so excited about and why I was motionless. When Juro's words had finally registered in my mind, a sensation overwhelmed me.

_I caught it. I caught. I don't how, but _I _caught it. _

My blood boiled and my heart raced circuits. It's that type of emotion that's slowly swelling up inside of you, but when it becomes full, you're too stunned to realize you have to let it all out, and it results to you ready to explode into millions of pieces. What I did, though, was the exact opposite. I held it in. In, in, in. For being the first person to be the lab rat of that experiment, I was probably also the first person to find out that you didn't explode in the end. What became of you was a crinkled forehead. Uprisen cheeks. Turned lips. Glitter in your eyes.

A smile.

It's a good feeling, overall. Very good.

That was why I'd been using that to keep me going until there was no ounce of energy left in my bones. It was the very first thing that told me that my hands were built for a glove and my feet for cleats. It lead me to loving helmet hair and residue of dirt on my pants. It made my teeth sturdy enough to chew seeds all day long. My throat was used to dying out because of cheering for two-three hours straight.

It was the first sign that told me I yearned for baseball.

_Breathe it._

_Live it._

Play it? Of course not.

At least, until now.

"Who's your second baseman?" I asked Bob. I watched from inside the dugout as the aforementioned boy dove straight for a line drive that dropped low behind the pitcher. He sprung his arms out as his chest collided with the ground, mounting a brown cloud around him. When he rose to his knees, he shot his arm up, along with the ball.

"He's good, eh? Name's Ruka Nogi." He reached across the bench and grabbed a bag full of seeds; barbecue flavored. He offered me some after taking six for himself.

I accepted. If my memory did me justice, these were Youichi's. Whoever that was. I popped the first two in my mouth. "Yeah, no kidding," I said in between bites. "I forgot that this is varsity we're watching."

"I know they're immature, and they mess around too much, but they're promising. I promise," he said, winking. If I learned anything new about Bob it was that he loved complimenting his team. Maybe it was why these boys were the most sponsored out of anyone else in the league.

"He'd be a good backup. It's not often that it happens, but when someone hits off one of my pitches, they're late and it tends to go right. S'why I need a good right-fielder, first, and an even better second baseman."

"Have you seen Kitsu?"

"Which one's that?"

He laughed. "Our floating first baseman."

"Floating?"

"He can catch anything, I tell ya'. Even when it's ten feet in the goddamn air he'd be able to catch it."

I nodded, acknowledging the proudness Bob emanated. "I'm guessing that's why you call him 'floating'?"

"Yeah."

Watson came swinging in the other end of the dugout, and marched right up to where Bob and I were sitting. "You sure you can't pitch yet, sweetheart?" he said, but sounding like one of those sarcastic coaches in dramas and movies. I was pretty sure he called everybody sweetheart. Before he came to us, he was out in left field batting flyballs to his team, and I swore that even from all the way in here I heard him yell, "Come on, sweetheart, don't be afraid to get your dick on the ground and dive!"

I looked at Bob. He shook his head. "No," I replied, turning back to Watson. He seemed like he knew it was the obvious answer, but it didn't hurt to try. "It's only been three days since you broke the big news to them. Give them some time to get used to me on the benches before they see me on the mound." Then, realizing how dominating I sounded, I added, "Coach."

"Well, Ol' Betty just had a heart attack and was taken back into the room to try and be fixed up, but for the meantime, ain't nobody pitching to the boys." Ol' Betty was their pitching machine. From what I heard, they'd been using her for well over thirty years now. It was no wonder she'd malfunction at times.

I looked out over the field again and saw the batters gathering around home, their bats on their shoulders and sweat on their sun-kissed faces. By the sight of the smiles and laughs, they didn't seem to mind the minor setback. "How about you soft-toss to them?" I recognized two out of five faces—Koko and Natsume. How could forget Koko? He was the boy who ran ten laps just for expressing his dislike for me, and also the boy who glares at my face with a big smile splatter where his mouth should've been. I wasn't sure I'd be able to find out whether he liked me or not with the way he was conveying his himself. And Natsume—everybody knew him. That was a given.

"Soft-toss works on making contact with the ball, which they have already mastered. We need to work on distance," said Bob.

"Right," I responded, feeling stupid for a half-second that I forgot the fundamentals of the drill, "well, I still can't help you, Watson. Sorry."

He took his visor off and scratched his head. "Yeah, guess not."

"How's practice?" inserted Bob.

"Haven't you been looking? They're at their best as of right now and I'm trying to keep it that way." Watson's composure lightened up a bit. I bet like Bob, he took pride in his polished team as well.

"Mm. When was their last water break? It's a thousand degrees out there, Watson. Don't push them too hard under this God-forsaken heat."

"Hey. If this girl can pitch four two hours straight under this kind of weather, these boys can do twice as much," Watson said, nodding to me.

I fought back a smirk. "I wasn't really..." The only reason why they knew that was because it was true. Everyday if I could, especially on the afternoons when the sun was at its scorching peak, I'd go out to the neighborhood park and pitch to the fence. I'd get so lost in the momentum that I wouldn't know whether I'd been going for a minute or an hour. One time I went five—hours, I meant—but that was when Watson and Bob weren't there.

The thing was I _knew _they've been secretly watching my solitary afternoon practices. The first time I noticed it was back a month ago. I ignored it because I was sort of used to it—many people stopped and gawked at how this young girl's pitches were so fast and accurate and how her form was deliberately perfect. But as hours, days, and weeks passed I realized that they've been watching everyday, for every single moment I was out there. I made sure that they weren't anyone dangerous, and after I confirmed it, I let them stay as if I wasn't aware of their presence. The second they finally revealed themselves to me was also the second they told me I would be the starting pitcher for boy's varsity baseball.

My thoughts were interrupted by an oh-so familiar sound. It was the crunching of cleats as they treaded on concrete. "Hey, coach. Betty's alive," said a voice as it also entered the dugout. A husky smell wafted inside the small area, but instead of crinkling my nose in disgust, I came to breathe it in as if it was Hollister cologne.

We all turned to the source. I could tell as I took in the richness of the voice that it wasn't some freshmen who's misplaced on a team filled with mostly juniors and seniors. It was a soothing sound, and it lulled in the place where one would think reality and dreams clashed. When my stare rode up to the dirt-stricken face I almost choked on my seeds.

_So red._

I knew Natsume Hyuuga was famous. For a lot of things, he was—good grades, good reputation, an edge to him all girls loved, played on varsity level. But what most people can distinguish him from everyone else were his spellbinding eyes. I swore if you looked way deep into them like I was right now you'd do anything he told you to do. My friends all warned me about this. _Don't look into his eyes. If you do, you'll fall in love with him and get your heart broken. _Well, duh, I wouldn't do that, but God, they were just something else.

"Already?" said Watson, twisting his visor back on.

"Yeah. It was just jammed." He lowered his gaze to mine. My breathe hitched as I felt like I was on fire and—dumb me—I smiled because some part of my small mind told me that he was trying to say hello. He didn't move his attention for what seemed like a long time, and eventually, he turned back to Watson.

_Why do I think that he thinks I'm an idiot now?_

"Should we start again?" Natsume continued.

"Hell yeah! Go on, rev 'er up and hit 'em homers."

Briefly, I met a deep-red hue once more as it moved between me and Bob. Watson nodded his head as a goodbye as he ran to home, with Natsume leisurely following not too far behind, and smacked the boys' heads for standing around and chatting. He started yelling again.

"Hey, Bob?" I started as the silence from before settled in.

"Hey, Mikan?"

"What position does Natsume play again?" Somehow I kinda already knew what he answer was going to be. There was only one spot on the team that would result to Natsume's bulky build, calloused hands, unruly hair, and rough voice.

"Hyuuga? He's the catcher."

* * *

_For those of you who are slightly confused, this scene takes place after Mikan's last period of the day in school. Until she gets her gear from Bob and Watson, she is supposed to show up at every after-school practice to watch the boys. That way, they will at least get used to seeing her. Mikan just sits inside the dugout. She doesn't get to go home until the coaches dismisses the entire team._

_Got it? Good._

_And all your other questions will be answered as the story goes along. _What got Mikan playing as a pitcher? Where's the rest of her family? _Patience, yeah?_

_Thanks you soo much for taking your time to read this, despite the obvious flaws shown on here. I'll try to make my other chapters more interesting! I'm thinking the next chapter is when Mikan finally gets on the field.(;_

_Good night, lovelies._


	3. And Threw

_So sorry for taking so long to update. I didn't even think I'd continue this story lol. Enjoy!_

* * *

_Chapter 3: And Threw_

I walked home that day with thoughts raging storms about the team, how I'd do in the team, how they'd do with me in the team, and, possibly more occupant than all, I thought about Natsume Hyuuga. He was famous enough to the point where even I'd be surprised if someone didn't know him. It didn't matter if you were familiar with baseball. It was just one of those things. No in-betweeners. No middle's.

Either you knew the kid spot on from the earliest start of his baseball career, or you didn't. Simple.

But, I'd guess, I was sort of a hypocrite in that aspect. When I told my friends I knew the name, but didn't know the face, their jaws had almost dislocated from hanging down too low, shocked. They screamed at me, grabbed me, _slapped_ me and told me how in the world I hadn't seen Natsume before. I knew him now, since we were supposed to be two peas in a pod on the same team, but that didn't cut it.

_He's as famous around here as Chaning Tatum is as famous around strip clubs, and you have the lady cojones to tell me you haven't seen him before?_

It had been well after school, almost three hours, and I still hadn't figured out what _cojones _meant. Not that I'd wanted to. Last time Anna threw me a curve ball like that, I had learned how to say ass licker in Lithuanian. Which, I had to be honest, wasn't too bad on her part. I could've used that in the future, to throw someone off or something.

_"I'm gonna kick your ass, Mikan!"_

_"Go ahead and try, you stupid subinlaizys!"_

Point was, I didn't really know Natsume as much as others wanted me to. Not the way I wanted to know him.

Until I reached my house, I though of how I could get to know the guy better. Rumors were true this time: he rarely talked; a man of few words. I remembered the looks he gave me today, but I got nothing out of them. His eyes were blood-red and emotionless, as if he was purposefully guarding the inside of his mind. Therefore, I didn't know what he thought of me. Annoying? Stupid? Out of place? Untalented?

I would think so, because that's what the rest of his team depicted me as. And I would know because they said so to my face after practice.

But I couldn't care any less what I seemed like to them, because their positions on the field were mere back-up to my position as a pitcher. With Natsume it was different. A pitcher and a catcher had to be on the best terms and know each other just from the way one was standing on the mound or squatting behind home plate. How could I get him to open up to me?

Ripping my blaring headphones off, I swung open my front door and stepped inside the warm air of my house. Besides my foot closing the door behind me, a silentious void engulfed me as I dropped my bag on the living room couch. Tiny sounds still squeaked from my headphones, so I reached for my phone to pause the song and, with a grumbling stomach, headed for the fridge see what dinner consisted of tonight.

"I'm home," I called out to no one, clutching the silver handle and pulling it wide open. Lunchables. It would've been the fifth night in a row. "Dad? I'm home." The box was out of my hand as quickly as it was in it. Desperate hunger lead me as I ripped it naked of its container as soon as it touched the kitchen table.

I didn't know why I was trying. Dad was never home at this time. He was never home when I was awake, actually. The mornings started to become rough when he started to leave for work at dawn and I was left to serve myself my own concoction of a breakfast. It proved to be harder when he began to miss dinners, too, and with my stomach naturally more ravenous for meals when the moon was out, I had to learn how to properly feed myself. That wasn't a problem now.

It was a problem when I was eleven.

"—_But with you, I feel again_," I hummed between bites. I decided to put music back into my ears when the quietness was too loud to bear. Shoving another biscuit layered with miniature ham and cheese, I continued, "—_Yeah with you, I can feel again_."

It took me five minutes to finish the entire box, ten minutes to eat another three, twelve to throw away the trash, and twenty seconds to grab a glove and ball and head down to the park to pitch in the dark.

* * *

I found myself running the next day. I was so used to going home after sixth period that I totally forgot I was now part of the baseball team, and that there was practice today—there was practice everyday. I was halfway between school and home when I turned on my heel and darted back to where I came from.

Sweat trickled down my temple as I bursted into the club room, heaving and panting and _late_. It was my first day pitching on the field, too. Many pairs of eyes flicked to me under many cap bills with matching scowls that told of revolting smells and disgusting sights. "I'm—sorry I'm late," I heaved. Hey, I pitched. Not ran. "I have no excuse. I forgot."

At the front of the room, Bob propped his knuckles on his hip and nodded for me to take a seat. They were all occupied, so I set my stuff down beside the door and took the wall with my back. "We were just talking about you," he said.

_Great. _"Should I be offended?"

"Not with the way I've been sticking up for you."

Sticking up for me. That meant the boys were doing the opposite. "I guess I should thank you then?"

"You're welcome." From the corner of my eye, I saw gumboy chewing another stick of what I had a gut feeling was gum. He chewed with his mouth open and eyes burning a hole through my head.

I swore, if he so much made an attempt to repeat what happened yesterday—

"So we were talking about whether we should station up or scrimmage today," continued Bob, ripping my focus from Yume to him, "because we weren't sure if it was okay to put you on the spot right on your first day."

I shifted my weight between my left and right foot. Like I hadn't been put on the spot the minute I was introduced to this team. "Either's fine with me."

A smile crept onto his mouth. "I figured you'd say that, so I decided stations today." He stepped aside and reveled what was written on the board behind him. There were four columns, all respectively labeled outfield, infield, batting, and pitching. Of course, the only names under the last one were mine and Hyuuga's. The second I read it, my eyes traveled to the person. I was surprised to find him already staring at me.

Bob coughed. "Everyone's here, correct? Alright, Nogi, Yume, Libel, Youichi, take infield. Pick your spots. Mochi, Combs, Cespedes, and Yuu all take out. Rest of you go home—kidding! Sit you ass back down, Daichi! Rest of you, bring out Betty and bat until you're ready to switch. Everyone's on their own today. Watson's not here, and I'll be busy working with Mikan. Oh, and we're running it short half an hour."

Before I could ask, someone casually piped up, "Another date, Bob?"

"Italian tourist," he answered, grinning. "She needed someone to show her around town, so I offered dinner." Bob never striked me as the dating type, and the way it sounded was like he did a lot of it. Uh, okay?

"She brought relatives?"

"That speak English? No. She can barely speak herself. And what the hell, Cespedes! No dating! It's almost season, punk!"

Three people down from me, the aforementioned raised two hands in defeat as a easy, mischievous smile made its way around his more I stared at him, the more I realized I knew him. He was in my algebra class—he's that kid that was almost always late. And whenever he did come, he'd be in uniform and lugging a duffle bag over his shoulders. I should've known he was on varsity.

"Alright, let's not waste time. We're out for only an two hours today and I want to get the best out of it. Mikan?"

I answered with my chin up in the air. "Coach?"

"You ready to pitch?"

"I never know," I sighed, kicking myself off the wall and grabbing and strapping my bag back onto my shoulder, "until I'm on the mound." I brought it out in front of my chest to unzip the top. I rummaged around until I found my socks, pants, and shirts that I received from Watson yesterday before he left. "So the second I'm on it, I'll let you know." I held up my shirt. "I need to change, first, though."

"Don't take too long."

"Don't start without me." I turned around and slid the door open. Immediately, platonic heat waves hit my face and began to already make me sweat. I was wishing I had a water bottle to cool me down all the way to the girl's locker room. Not for drinking, but for pouring it all over my head, which, I swore, was sizzling.

There was another thing I swore on. As I left the club room, I was pretty sure Bob was the only one who stared after me _without_ hostility.

"We'll be waiting! Not."

"Man, we're already ten minutes late."

"Good luck, Natsume, you'll need it."

"Hn."

"God, don't tell me she's using our uniform."

The trudge to the locker room consisted of nothing but heat, sweat, and a sudden difficulty to not imagine every varsity baseball player's head shoved in a pile of dirt. Were they so filled with pride that they'd do anything to drive me away, even if I meant a shot at winning championships? Well, I wasn't going anywhere. Once I started something, I ended it. I'd gone through life meeting enough people with unfinished business. No way in hell was I going to end up like them.

But . . . why did I even say yes to the coaches in the first place?

Was it because it got me out of P.E?

Or because I couldn't say no to two men both holding a bat?

Or because I was so—too in love with the game?

Or because of my dad?

Of Juro?

I didn't get in too deep with the topic. It was always one that lingered in my mind for week's on end and prevented me from pitching right. I got changed as quickly as I could and jogged it out to the field with nothing but a glove and a ball, though I probably wouldn't have had needed it.

Surely enough, the boys were standing idly around home plate while Bob stood in the center, humming a melody under his breathe. When I reached them, their eyes picked up from the dirt field and met mine. I scanned all over fifteen pairs of multi-colored irises. Words that popped in my head—bright, pretty, determined.

But definitely not welcoming.

They all started to disperse, excluding Bob, who came and stood next to me, and Natsume, who slid on his catcher's mask and squatted a few feet behind home plate. Catcher's position. So we were starting already? I hadn't even stretched.

As I made my way to the mound, I was aware that nobody was going to outfield, or any other position at infield. Everyone lined up against the first base dug out and watched me like how an eagle watched its prey scamper off to try to find shelter.

"What are they doing Bob?" I asked as he matched my stride. He handed me a ball, which I dropped since I already had one, as I positioned my footing on the mound upon reaching it. There was a hole where a pitcher's foot usually went for the wind up—I stuck my right foot in there.

"Watching," he said, fixing his cap and going behind me where he's out of my pitch's range. "They said they had the utmost right to. Do you mind?"

I peeked a glance at all fourteen bodies, with arms crossed and attention on me, fixated where they stood. They had the perfect view of my pitch, as well the perfect view to catch any mistakes in my stance, or throw, or anything else I knew they'd kill to call me out for. I then darted my focus straight ahead of me. Natsume's eyes were still so bold and evident even when they were hidden under his mask. They didn't waver. They didn't blink. His determination was almost too clear just by the sight of his eyes, and I didn't want my catcher any other way.

He was perfect.

"Not at all," I said, setting myself up. "I didn't mind you and Watson; they're actually kind of a better audience."

I got it. They didn't think so, but I got it. They didn't want me here.

So, I took a deep breathe, twisted the ball in my hand to find its stitches, wounded up.

And threw.

* * *

_Any questions you have will be cleared up in the upcoming chapters. I promise. So stay tuned(: thanks for reading, and don't forget to review!_


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